


You can walk all over me, baby

by watchthequeenconquer



Category: Peaky Blinders RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Crossdressing, Dirty Talk, Foot Fetish, Foot Massage, Kink Exploration, M/M, Past Drug Addiction, Sexual Humor, Shoe Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:34:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29419464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watchthequeenconquer/pseuds/watchthequeenconquer
Summary: Stuck on set and struggling with his sobriety, Tom is desperate to blow off steam. Cillian helps him indulge in one of his kinks.
Relationships: Tom Hardy/Cillian Murphy
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	You can walk all over me, baby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [booksnchocolate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/booksnchocolate/gifts).



> Happy Valentine's Day, you freaks and lovers. 
> 
> I read years ago that Tom had a fetish for women's shoes - see quote below. 
> 
> “It’s a fetish. I love classic, elegant women’s shoes. I find them incredibly sexy. High heels. Not just a stripper shoe but maybe a Louboutin or Jimmy Choo."
> 
> Having played a transgender foundling in Breakfast On Pluto, Cillian felt like a natural fit to challenge gendered norms and be comfortable giving Tom what he needed. 
> 
> This isn't the best thing I've ever written, but have wanted to do so for ages. I own nothing and certainly don't intended to offend in anyway - this is a work of fiction (that no one asked for and will probably ever read!). 
> 
> It's a pleasure to contribute to this fandom! 
> 
> Enjoy x

“What are you wearing?” Tom asks, the phone pressed awkwardly between his shoulders and the hard pillow in his hotel suit.

Charlotte’s laugh is full, sweet, low on the other end of the line.

“Barely spoken to you for a week and we’re going there, are we?” Her voice is clipped, so flat and British in her mock disdain that the crooked smile that breaks out over his face is so wide that it objectively hurts.

“You love it.” He purrs, voice pointedly low, distracted by his own fumbling hands.

The zip on his jeans is stuck and he tugs at it awkwardly - any pretence of subtlety flying out the window in his sudden fit of desperation.

It’s been ages since he’s shot for tele and the long hours on the set of Peaky Blinders are starting to get the better of him. It’s maddening, being so close to home and yet so far away. 

He loves his job, fully aware of how lucky he is to play make believe for a living. It’s not the work that he minds so much, but the downtime in between that makes him anxious. The disconnection from reality that is profession provides can be dangerously intoxicating, giving him a hit that supplants the highs that illicit substances used to provide. 

Lights, camera, shutdown. He exits the set buzzing with the comedown  needing to take the edge off.

It’s been too long. The silence on the other end of the line makes that abundantly clear when a response isn’t forthcoming within a socially acceptable timeframe.

“You okay?”

“Mmm, yeah, fine.” He curses distractedly, clenches his fist too tight around the phone when the zip continues to be temperamental.

“You sound...hungry.”

“When am I not?” He laughs, gasping in relief when the lip of metal follows the track obediently. 

“How’s work?” Charlotte presses, unphased.

He needs her so badly, breathing in his ear, bossing him around, putting him in his place, keeping him in line.

His dick throbs. The ache is mirrored in his temples, pounding in time. It’s been ages since he had a proper night’s sleep, stuck in a foreign bed with no relief from the incessant nattering in his own cracked head, from the pressure to perform. 

“Cillian’s impossible. Can’t work with the prick.”

He is tired; that was far from his best attempt at a serious delivery.

“He says the same about you.”

“You girls do like to gossip...” His eyes roll skyward as he roughly presses his palm against the jutting outline of his cock, dampening the material of his briefs.

Tom stifles a moan, thick eyelashes fluttering. After twelve exhausting hours on his feet with no break, it’s the best he’s felt all day.

“Alright there?” His wife laughs playfully, catching the change in his breathing.

“Never better,” He nearly bites through his own lip, “Did you get the present I sent you?”

“They’re stunning, Tom. You shouldn’t have.” Charlotte goes a little breathy herself as she giggles.

The tell-tale sound of a box being opened and expensive packaging crinkling ruffles sweetly over the line. The whisper of the fine material sets the hairs on his tattooed arms on end.

“What do they look like?” He asks, his voice suddenly shot, any pretence of coolness abandoned in the heat of desire. 

“Blood red. Edges so sharp you could take an eye out.”

“Fuck.” He might be the one bleeding in a minute, bite clean through his lip at the thought of her fingers tracing the delicate curves.

“What’s your favourite part?” He grunts. His hips stutter forward of their own accord, leaning into the force of the pressure. 

“Definitely the little bejewelled ankle strap.”

Fuck.

“Send me a picture?” Tom breathes.

His neck is kinking with the angle and his fingers with his own insistence, cramping as he begins to rub insistently, dick chafing dryly against the rough cotton.

It’s as exquisitely painful as the conversation; the dully registering of awareness that he isn’t going to get the relief he needs.

“Not a chance!” She scoffs, and it only makes him choke, gasping for air around his own spit. Pregnancy has made her short and he loves and loathes it with equal ferocity.

“Did you try them on?”

He hangs onto the pause on the end of the line pathetically, listening intently as she moves to get more comfortable.

“My ankles have ballooned since I saw you last...it’d snap if I tried.”

“Kind of sexy?” He licks his too dry lips, wincing at the rough friction as he rubs harder.

“Won’t be when I lose an appendage jamming them into these open toes.”

“You’re killing me.” He curses, slamming his eyes shut. He’s so hard it hurts and he’s not even close.

“You’re sick.”

“You know it.”

A knock on the door causes his hand to stutter to a halt.

“Yeah?” He practically snarls.

Charlotte cackles as the person behind the door takes a full minute to steel themselves before responding.

“I’m so sorry Mr. Hardy, you’re needed back on set.”

“FUCK OFF, NOW!”

Charlotte is howling on the other end of the line. Tom drops his head back into the pillow, breathing hard through his nose in his best attempt to reign himself in.

He barely resists the urge to drive his head back into the wooden headboard, break the lamp, kick the door down as he storms out.

“You are in a mood, aren’t you, dear?”

“If I have to suffer, everyone does.”

“Isn’t that what art is for?”

“Tell Cillian to spend less time talking shit to my wife and more practising his shitty accent. It’s an affront to us all.” Tom scoffs.

His erection is as deflated as his mood. He’s glad Alfie is a cranky bastard.

“Will do, my love.”

The receiver clicks and Tom stares at the ceiling before mustering the will to roll off the bed.

Thank god he’s English. Stiff upper lip and all that. Wish that wasn’t the only thing getting hard today.

*

Needless to say, the days on set that follow offer the perfect outlet for his pent up frustration.

The scene in the underground bakery is the perfect showcase for Alfie’s volatility and Tom is more than up to task.

He’s going to nail this bastard.

And he does, quite literally, when he completely misses on his cue.

The strike of the cane is too quick to dodge at close quarters. Either the man on the receiving end has done some serious time in stunt school or he’s underestimated his own strength, because he goes down like a sack of shit.

“Fuck’s sake, cut!” The director shouts despairingly.

“Dust him off, he’ll be right.” Tom sniffs, standing over the man with Alfie’s face masking his own with indifference.

He steps aside as the stage hands begin to fuss when the fallen baker doesn’t show immediate signs of recovery.

He knows he should be a bit concerned, but it doesn’t hurt his notorious reputation for the cast to think he’s a little bit of a cunt. Method acting, right?

Cillian snorts from his position out of shot.

Tom turns on him.

“Got something to add, mate?” He snarls. A tech assistant offering water to the slowly roused man nearly spills the cup, jumping in her haste to get out of the vicinity of his snarling threat.

It makes something feral inside him, the dark twisted thing that would do anything to get high again and counted car jackings as a recreational past time, stretch and bear its teeth, howling appreciatively.

Cillian’s dark eyebrow is raised so high that it practically disappears into his ridiculous fringe.

“Solid work there.” He says, quietly but clearly.

Tom’s skin crawls as he does his best to remain grounded in his aggression.   
Bastard has known him for too long  too well. 

The fact that they used to blow each other between takes probably helps. 

It had been easier, back then. Sneaking off from craft services or into trailers after late night reshoots. 

It wasn’t marriage so much that had changed their arrangement  their wives were aware and supportive  but fame, that seductive, demanding mistress, grabbed you firmly by the balls and wouldn’t let you go once she had you in her finely-manicured grasp. 

Things had certainly changed since he last worked with Cillian. Tom’s built a bit of a reputation for himself as closed off, hard to work with. No longer willing to get stomped on by directors or outshone by less talented actors after years of putting in the work. 

To any observer who didn’t know him from before, he knows he acts like a bit of a prick. Built that façade himself, didn’t he? He’s become so accustomed to hiding in plain sight that the risk of exposure sets off the fight or flight response he’s worked so hard to suppress

“It’s called acting. You should try it sometime, instead of hiding behind that stupid fucking haircut and a floppy hat.”

It comes out harsher than intended and the make-up artist that is suddenly hovering over to touch up Cillian notices. Too descent of a human being to hide the expression of disgust that flashes over his face.

Tom drags a hand over his own, manages to hold in his wince until the third party disappears, noticeable without offering him the same service.

“Nominated for one Oscar and thinks he wrote the book, eh?” Cillian’s tone is humourless, but his ice blue eyes sparkle.

“Fuck off.” Tom throws back, almost sagging with relief as he rubs the back of his neck and suppresses a yawn, hiding a smile behind his hand. It’s as close as he’ll come to an apology publicly and they both know it.

“I could if you hadn’t assaulted one of the extras.”

“Mmm.”

“Long night, isn’t it?” Cillian observes, pushing off the wall and drifting closer. He looks infuriatingly graceful as he moves, effortlessly fresh in the pristine suit even after hours under the lights. 

“Who knew two fucking scenes would require so many reshoots?” Tom grimaces, fiddling with his rolled-up sleeves, feeling sweaty and stuffy in his baker’s garb. 

Crew members scarper between them, resetting the scene and adjusting lights.

“Could be worse - at least we’re not suspended from the ceiling in harnesses.”

Tommy must be rubbing off on him. The offhand mention of their past flashes as briefly as the tight lipped smile that accompanies it.

“At least the pain in my arse was manifested from a physical sensation then,” Tom musters up the energy to smile back.

The silence between them falls easily as the bustle of the set washes over them for a few brief moments.

Cillian clears his throat, slipping his hands into his pockets easily.

“Been sleeping much?”

Tom considers lying, and dismisses the notion as soon as it pops into his head.

“Barely,” He admits, rolling his shoulders and enjoying the satisfying sound of his neck cracking, “Never was much good at hotels without a night cap.”

“Surrounded by rum and not a drop to drink.” Cillian replies dryly.

Only a recovering addict would take a role like this, Tom thinks to himself, gazing momentarily around the fake distillery. Even knowing his history, Cillian must think he’s mad, even if he understood Tom taking the artistic license to insist that Alfie never touch his own product.

“What do you do instead?”

It’s an oddly direct question, punctuated by those eerie blue eyes piercing through him so suddenly it almost takes his breath away. He’s immediately transported back to the good old days. 

Clearly born to perform, Cillian had always been brilliant at communicating his desires without verbalising them. One look and Tom would be scarpering after him around corners, shucking his pants, dropping to his knees…

“Come off it  what every other red-blooded male with a pregnant wife does,” Tom scoffs, pausing for dramatic affect.

Cillian, statue-still, patiently waits.

“Meditate, of course!” Tom exclaims, throwing his hands up and looking around in exasperation, “And I’m supposed to be the savage? Fucking animal, get your mind out of the gutter.”

“How disgustingly introspective,” Cillian murmurs, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling, boredom evident in his tone, “Maybe if you spent that personal development time learning your lines, we’d be out of here and flat on our backs by now?”

Cheeky bastard.

“That’s the beauty of not being the lead... I don’t have that many. You know what that’s like, being most of your career, right?”

Tom’s bark of laughter echoes when Cillian elbows him pointedly. It turns a few heads in their direction, but it feels fucking fantastic to engage with a real person who’s not deathly afraid of him. 

“And when I forget them, I can just threaten the extras with bodily harm.”

“Is it satisfying?” Cillian asks. His Cork accent slips through in the relaxed tone, smooth and curious in its lilt  a welcome old friend in an unfamiliar setting.

“Hitting people? Yeah mate, you should give it a try sometime.”

The resulting eye roll tickles something inside Tom’s chest.

“Meditation.”

“Oh yeah, lots of visualising and counting.” He rambles. It’s always been so easy with Cillian that he can’t catch himself before he slips.

“What do you count?”

“Shoes.”

Cillian’s haircut can’t hide his surprise this time.

“Come again?”

Tom’s brain betrays him, undoubtedly getting its own back after years of abuse and neglect, drawing an earth-swallowing blank at his mistake.

“Sheep, I meant.” Tom tries lamely. 

It’s a poor attempt at recovery, not even close to a match and they both know it.

“Sure, sure.” Cillian nods, suppressing the faintest hint of a grin.

“Positions!”

Saved by the fucking bell!

A hive of extras and stage hands swarm between them, swallowing up the space and (hopefully) the sudden blossom of heat in Tom’s face.

The rest of the shoot is incident free. Tom is the consummate professional, focusing hard on the blocking and his verbal execution. To the crew, it must just look like his best attempt to make up for his earlier transgression.

When the director calls the scene, Tom is on the move - not sparing Cillian a sideways glance and getting out of there as fast as his feet will carry him.

Fuck, feet is the last thing he wants to think about.

Thank god he has a day off tomorrow.

*

It’s past midnight when Tom makes it back to the room.

Bleary eyed, he stumbles into the too clean shower, stripping as he goes.

The scalding hot water feels delicious on his exhausted body.

“Idiot.”

He leans against the tiled wall, dropping his head onto his forearm with a loud groan.

It means nothing in the grander scheme of things, but his deeply intimate slip up plays over and over in his head torturously.

He’s not ashamed of his kink  it’s just not one that he gets much of a chance to explore. With his hectic work schedule and a baby on the way, the opportunities for him to indulge in intimacy in his marriage are fewer and further between these days. Verbalising it only serves as yet another painful reminder of another night without having his needs fulfilled.

His phone pinging in the room brings him back to his sense.

Turning off the water and knitting a towel loosely around his waist, he wanders out to flop onto his belly on the bedspread.

“Feeling a little toey?”

The little bubbles pop up, signalling a response.

“*Tired. Bloody phones.”

The arsehole definitely noticed. Tom feels his face heat up again, swears under his breath.

He’s not sure what’s worse - the open mockery or what it is doing to his fucked up, touch-starved body. Even in his drained state, he can feel his untended cock stirring into life at the suggestion of being belittled.

He knows he shouldn’t, but it’s Cillian. 

“Dead on my feet.”

He drops the towel, let’s it breathe, enjoys the lazy shifting of his hips against the mattress.

“Toe-tally understandable.”

He giggles to himself as he replies, must be fucking delirious, because the gentle movement becomes a persistent roll.

“Put my foot in my mouth, didn’t I?”

“Didn’t realise you were that flexible...do you have to arch it a bit to fit it in there or has sucking your own prick for so long made it easier?”

“Fuck.” Tom moans out loud, full lips dropping open  startled a bit but his own wantonness.

The friction of his still-damp groin against the roughness of the towel is enough to lull his mind into a gratifyingly empty state of satisfaction.

He’s so caught up in the exquisite pleasure building low in his belly that he doesn’t realise he’s forgotten to reply until his phone trills.

“Busy? Make sure you clean between your toes.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” He exclaims to the empty room incredulously.

His uncoordinated thrusts into the bedding have increased in their intensity, hips hitching in the mindless pursuit of release.

“Painting my nails.” He types back dumbly, one handed.

He’s practically shaking with need, sweating and gasping like a lad getting off for the first time.

“Hope you’re not making a mess.”

Tom wines, long and low, when he feels a slick jet of pre-cum shoot warningly onto the cloth, slicking them way.

“Don’t forget to blow them dry.”

The orgasm crests alarmingly, curling in the tips of his aforementioned toes and shooting up his spine. The hoarse cry that escapes his lips can’t be him, he’ll fucking deny it till his dying day – wretched and wrecked. As he comes, he fists a hand into his hair and yanking, swallowing around the sharp jolt of pleasure pain as he humps the mattress like a dog in heat.   
It’s humiliating and exhausting and exactly what he needs.

He picks up the phone again and types with shaking hands, nearly dropping it in his rush.

“Got a bit sticky there.”

“Won’t tell a sole.”

Laughing in spite of himself, Tom throws the phone across the room. He really is losing the plot. 

“Sick bastard.”

It's the last semi-coherent thought before he passes out in his own drying come, exhausted but satisfied. 

*

The following day’s shoot is beyond gruelling.

Despite being up at sparrow’s fart, technical difficulties mean that they spent most of the day loitering on set, waiting for production to resume which inevitably drags the shoot on late into the evening.

By the time Tom gets back to his room, slamming the door belligerently loudly behind him, he is close to literally murdering someone for a drink.

When they’d wrapped, the rest of the crew had lopped off for beers. Tom politely excused himself before high tailing it, too tired and cranky to navigate the ordeal of socialising sober.

“Get your shit together, you silly boy.”

In all aspects of his life, the comedown had always been the hardest part. The end of the party, the dial-tone at the end of a line, the regret of getting all caught up that comes after empty your balls into a stranger or waking up scared and sweating after banging a needle into your arm. 

Work is no different. The spotlight shuts off and he’s left alone to deal with the repercussions of his character’s actions circulating through his thick head, residual adrenaline coursing through his veins as he attempts to slip out of the other skin that’s strangling him as he attempts to vest himself of it.

Rather than release with the scene, all the pent-up aggression only amplifies the tense set of his shoulders, the stiffness in his neck, fists balled and forearms taught, primed for a confrontation that never comes.

His phone interrupts his aimless stalking. Squints at the number, considers throwing it at the wall to release some frustration.  
He stops short when he recognises Cillian’s number.

“You going out?”

“No. You?

“Of course, it’s nearly midnight. Hunting for witches.” 

Mad bastard. Tom pokes his tongue out as he replies.

“Full moon out. Don’t want to turn.”

The mini-bar that he specifically requested be removed from his room makes bedroom eyes at him. He resists the urge to upend its contents and smash the tiny, life-destroying bottles inside into a million pieces. 

He laughs, nearly sobbing when he thinks he’d just end up sucking the spilled liquid out of the carpet at this rate, anyway. Considers not being so completely fucking vulnerable for a second, only for a second, before thumbing one more text.

“Trying to unwind. Failing.”

There’s no response.

He falls back on the bed, throwing his forearm over his eyes.

He’s a fucking movie star and he couldn’t be less cool if he tried.

Taken by a sudden burst of energy, he walks over to the window and slams the curtains shut  hiding from the bright, inquisitive gaze of the moon as though it will absolve him of all of his many sins. Kicks off his shoes, drags his shirt over his head as he goes, lobs it across the room.

The burst of activity wakes something carnal in him. 

When in doubt...

Settling back comfortably, a tentative hand ghosts up his chest, tweaking one of his nipples, tentatively. The dusky bud peaks immediately, blossoming in the moonlight. 

“Horny little slag,” He chides himself. 

With his other hand, he undoes his belt, clumsily shoving his pants down past his ankles.

Addicts never give up the ghost, not really. Just find others to haunt them, when it’s all said and done. 

His cooling lizard brain knows he should hold off chasing empty pleasure  tends to do his best work when remains celibate. And yes, these days, that term loosely extends to intimacy with his own palm. 

But it’s late. He can’t call Charlotte and he needs to busy his hands before he reaches for a glass and can’t look himself in the mirror in the morning for an entirely different reason.

He gets a hand inside his briefs, wraps his fingers around his semi-hard prick. Doesn’t even bother to spit, because this should be a dry affair – a little painful and quick. 

During the first torturous stroke, the door creaks open.

Fucking thing must’ve bounced straight off the frame when he came in. 

His heart promptly falls out through his arse.

“Bad time?” Cillian asks from the doorway, checking the hall one more time before slipping inside. 

“Impeccable, never better, yeah  you could call ahead next time?” Tom babbles, neck straining as he stares, mouth hanging wide open.

Rather than cover himself and protect any shred of modest he has left; his hand remains in place. The bloodied tip of his cock is literally shivering in the cool night air, poking over the top of his black briefs. 

He’s so fucked. 

Shutting the door behind him and turning the lock with an emphatic click that serves to remind Tom of what a complete fucking fool he is, the other man enters. 

“Felt like a walk. Knew you’d be up.” Cillian returns with the ease of someone stating the obvious, completely unphased by Tom’s delicately compromised state.

He moves to the makeshift desk on the opposite side of the room that seems to occupy every hotel room ¬ taking up space with no use other than to pinch the stationary for your kids to doodle on at the end of a trip. 

Tom notices belatedly that he’s still wearing Tommy Shelby’s clothes, black coat hangs off his lithe frame imposingly. 

Cillian deposits it on the chair, sliding out of the arms. The weight of the character seems to fall away as he does and Tom finds himself sighing in relief, not realising he was holding his breath, almost on his old friend’s behalf. 

“That’s better.” 

He stretches and Tom strains his neck to appreciate the view. Clothed beautifully still in the tailored suit and waist coat, the Irishman is just as he remembered. The fine lines of his torso are beautifully emphasised in the fitted shirt. The sharp cut of his jaw only seems to have improved with aged. 

With the shock of dark hair with the shaved sides and those glacial blue eyes, he still looks like all of Tom’s dreams, waking and unconscious, rolled into one. 

Cillian groans as his bones crack, releasing the day’s strain and Tom feels his cock jump traitorously in his hand. 

Lust hits him like a sucker punch. 

Some things never change. 

“My feet are killing me.” Cillian admits, finally glancing over to look at him properly. 

Tom feels his face spontaneously combust with heat. Doesn’t stop his hand from tightening on his now embarrassingly hard cock, full-mast, twenty-one-gun salute, standing at attention under the authoritative gaze. 

“Yeah?” Tom supplies, stupidly. His brain wonders if he should have waited to be asked before responding. 

“It’s been a chore carrying you all day.” Cillian chuckles.

Tom snorts, appreciatively. The building tension in the room seems to diffuse somewhat with the joke. In its place, warmth pervades  stoked by the enchanting whispers of possibility that only truly come alive in the witching hour. 

Shifting from foot to foot, what Cillian says next throws him completely for six. 

“It’s been a while since I wore in new shoes.” 

“Come again?” 

Blocked from view by his angle, Tom struggles upright for clarification. 

His jaw practically hits the floor when he takes in the other man’s meaning, mouth going completely dry. All the blood rushes from his head southward. 

“How did you know?”

“Charlotte.” 

Shutting his eyes, overwhelmed with a flood of gratitude for his wife, Tom sets the feeling aside, placing it on a shelf  something precious to be admired later when privacy permits. 

“And where did you get those from, exactly?” He manages, willing his tongue to form words once it’s dislodged from the roof of his mouth. 

“Wardrobe. Told them I was preparing for an upcoming role.” Cillian glances downward, rolling his ankles beneath the hem of Tommy Shelby’s trousers. 

“And you walked here?”

His brain is struggling through the fog of desire that has descended upon it, short-circuiting his ability to coherently formulate a plausible thought. The visual and accompany dialogue is too much to compute. 

“One foot in front of the other,” Cillian pauses, as if considering, “Why – do you do it differently?” 

“Like that?” Tom says, dumbly, for emphasis. 

It’s almost too much, but the image enters his brain anyway. Cillian striding up the carpeted hall, as quickly as his legs will allow, Tommy’s coal-black coat swirling around him like an oncoming storm. The razor-blade sharp hair cut would be a dead give-away if anyone spotted him. 

“It’s late  no one was looking at me. Just another drunk stumbling home.” Cillian assures him, rocking back and forth on the tips of his toes, swaying a little – whether with tiredness or for balance, it’s hard to tell. 

Tom scrambles upright. 

There’s always someone looking at Cillian  fucking magnetic presence that he is, coupled with that pale skin, and those long legs and the criminally attractive face.

If he thinks for a fucking second no one is looking, Tom will show him otherwise. Leans heavily, elbows on knees, balancing himself, grounding his bare feet in the carpet. Ignores the aching fold of his cock against his belly, straining against his dampened briefs. 

He stares at Cillian’s feet. 

“Does it hurt?” 

“They say it’s like riding a bike once you’ve mastered it the first time, but I feel a little like I’m on training wheels still.”

Tom bites off a strangled growl, low and guttural in the back of his throat. 

Cillian continues to rock back and forth in place, pressing off his toes and lengthening his arches. The veins in his feet pop with the movement, unaccustomed to the additional strain, the lengthening of his tendons. 

“Always such a fucking tease.” Tom thinks, says aloud, laser focused. 

“Do they suit me?” Cillian grins. 

“Hard to say,” Tom muses, unblinking, “Your clothes are distracting me. Strip.” 

“If you think you’re in control here, you’re sorely mistaken.” Cillian chuckles, but obliges. 

The pants are the first to go  and Tom nearly barks in anger when the garment drops to pool around the standing man’s ankles. 

The buttons on the waistcoat are excruciating, fondled by fingers that show no clear intention of haste. Unbuttoning the shirt seems to take an eternity  deliberately cruel when it could clearly just be yanked up and over or torn to shreds, if Tom had his way.

Shrugged off ridiculously structured shoulders, slipping down arms still covered with false, fading tattoos  the material flutters to the floor to gather with the other discarded items. 

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” 

Tom blinks, the spell of fixation suddenly broken. 

He looks up and see, properly, beyond his own perspective for the first time since the door opened.

“Yeah.” He stammers, somewhat lost for words. 

Cillian isn’t talking about the shoes. 

Standing there before him, it hits Tom that he’s not the only one who has been exposed. 

This display of vulnerability is more intimate than anything they’ve ever done previously. It feels like an offering  sacred  a testament to a relationship that has endured over years and distance and evolution. 

In the spirit of youth, their interactions had been all excitement and chemically imbalanced hormones, about getting off as quickly and clandestinely as possible. Time didn’t exist like it does now – with the confidence of age and the luxury of time and privacy.

Cillian shifts, coughs a little self-consciously and Tom snaps out of his dazed musings.

“Sorry sweetheart  as ever, you’ve got me a little flustered.” He apologises smoothly  aware of how it might sound like a practised line, but meaning ever word. 

Cillian rolls his eyes skyward. 

“Answer the question, you insufferable shite.”

Long, talented fingers brace his hips, pelvis jutting forward with his impatience. Despite being pinned under Tom’s quietly lingering stare, the tented front of his underwear betrays his arousal. 

It’s all the confirmation Tom needs that nothing has changed. 

“Yeah, but it’s better than I remembered.”

Cillian bows a little, bending at the waist. The movement makes his abs contract deliciously and Tom licks his lips subconsciously, wanting.

“Ever the exhibitionist.” 

“Since I’m pretending to audition  how about I walk for you, like a good little model?” 

Tom’s mouth fills with saliva as he turns, all but fucking sashaying to the other side of the room. The expanse of pale skin, bared in the lamplight, is captivating. Long, lean, toned legs  pins that would have the majority of the female population despairing in their wake  stride confidently with practised ease. 

Squeezing his hands into fists on top of his knees, resisting the urge to shove onto into his mouth and attempt to swallow it down with his rapidly building desire, Tom cops a long eyeful of grace personified. 

High-waisted blue boxers only add to the effect ¬ synching in at the mouth-wateringly svelte waist. The silky cloth only accentuates the gentle, unfairly perky slope of his arse. 

“Turn.”

Cillian obeys with a smooth pirouette  shoulders pinned back, eyes forward, the lines in his long slender neck so well-defined that Tom wants to sink his teeth into them but settles for sweating, panting, desperately turned on. 

The space between the wall and the bed is only a short distance, but it feels like a catwalk-length, distorted eternity before the space between them closes. 

Cillian remains painstakingly out of reach, waiting as though for confirmation with his hands loosely behind his back.

Tom fights down the suddenly overwhelming urge to touch, man-handle, tear the other man apart. Remembers this isn’t his show, he’s just a spectator, and settles  calming the beast inside him with soothing tones. 

“So?” Cillian ventures, bringing back to the present. 

Tom raises his hands slowly, clamps emphatically, whistles long and low. 

“You’ve still got it.”

The blush that colours Cillian’s cheeks  spreads attractively down his pecs  is beyond endearing. 

“Reckon I’d still pass  in a dark alley, with a lot of make up?” 

Tom scratches his beard for a moment, considering. 

“In those shoes, I wouldn’t know whether to come running or just run.” 

Cillian preens, pivots, one leg tantalisingly extended as he half-turns towards the door  looking obscenely good as he does so. 

“So should I sashay away?” 

“For the sake of my fragile masculinity, I am going to pretend not to understand that reference.” 

“Away?”

“Stay!”

It should be an order, but they both know that Tom isn’t the one who calls the shots around here. 

Cillian turns with a half-smile and moves, fucking finally, toward him. 

Tom makes space for him to straddle his lap, bare knees bracketing his waist on the comforter. His hands drag him closer until they are skin to skin, hamstring to thigh, nearly chest to chest  allowing proximity only for exploration. 

Desperate fingers smother every inch of bare skin  memorising the panes of angular shoulder blades, committing the valleys between each rib and the sleek torso to prosperity. 

Cillian plants a hand in his chest and shoves firmly, throwing his deceptive weight behind the movement. As the older of the pair, he had always taken the lead – the risk-taker of their partnership ¬ always goading the younger on with a suggestive glance or words of affirmation. 

As powerless to resist his advances as ever, Tom lands flat on his back.

“Just like old times, eh?” He pillows his hands behind his head. 

“Me doing all the work, you mean?” Cillian shoots back, flicking his dark fringe out of his eyes as he stares down. 

Tom has nearly formed a witty retort when the words die on his lips when Cillian removes the last of his clothes. Has the good sense of scramble and follow suit, quick smart, dragging off his own  grunting as his cock slaps against his belly. 

“So beautiful.” He manages, appreciation thick in his voice. 

Cillian dips his head in acknowledgement, lazily fisting his own member as he stands, thighs deliciously flexed. 

“Come here, please.” Tom gasps, unable to stand the separation between them any long. 

Wordlessly, Cillian knee-walks up the bed to straddle Tom’s hips. 

The sight of the man sitting above him is every bit as good as he remembered. He leans back on his hands, the hard lines of his stomach shifting with the effort. Cillian gasps as his cock slaps against his own belly, red and dribbling. 

The movement begins with the barest shifting of his hips, tentatively getting comfortable in the new position. It doesn’t take long for impatience to set in, bucking up into the hand loosely fisted around himself. 

For his part, Tom doesn’t dare participate. It takes all of his willpower to remain still as Cillian begins to pick up the pace. Leaning back on his hands, he’s so beautifully exposed  head held high and dark hair back, too-plush lips fallen open as he drags his lovely arse back and forth over the cock trapped beneath. 

It’s so exquisite that it takes Tom a second to register that the friction is much smoother than he anticipated. 

“You’re wet.” He gasps, eyes practically bulging out of his head. 

“Came prepared.” Cillian moans towards the ceiling, “Too fucking old to end up in the hospital with anal tearing.” 

Though the thought of ripping him apart from the inside is tempting in theory, Tom grins savagely. 

“Too fucking famous now. Never had an entire series riding on you before.” 

Cillian drops his head to glance at Tom, pointedly rolling his blue eyes skyward. 

“In the manner of paying compliments to someone who is actually riding you, your dirty talk leaves a lot to be desired.”

“You’re so hot when you’re dismissive.” 

“Should I just ignore you like I used to when Nolan was around? I vaguely remember you creaming your pants.”

Tom shakes his head  the other man had his desperate need for approval pinned before he even understood the meaning of the phrase ‘praise kink’. 

He chokes back a groan as Cillian raises up before dropping down on him heavily, pulled under by the heavy drag.

Amid the sensory overload, the differences since their last time together all those years ago are worth savouring, cataloguing in his mind for later reference. 

The added definition to their bodies, heavier with muscle but also mapped with lines that weren’t there before  a road map of lost time marked on familiar territory being re-explored. 

The movements are executed with less haste and more ease  maybe afforded by experience but also in the contentedness, centeredness in the self, that maturity can bring. 

The creaking of joints as Cillian shifts makes Tom smile in spite of himself. He’s been at it for a while now and the position  with his shins tucked underneath him  can’t be the most comfortable. 

“Fucking hell  my knees aren’t what they used to be.” He chuckles, stopping to catch his breath. 

“Let me help,” Tom wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, knowing it makes him look more like an idiot than close to seductive. 

“Sensing an ulterior motive here.” Cillian teases knowingly, even as he begins to get his legs out from under himself. 

Tom doesn’t give him the chance to dismount properly, surging upright and throwing the slighter man off balance. 

Crying out in surprise, it’s Cillian’s turn to end up splayed out on top of the comforter as Tom scoops him up and uses the momentum to drive him onto his back in a sort of cushioned powerbomb that leaves them in an L shape. 

“He’s got moves, ladies and gentlemen.” Cillian laughs, failing to hide how impressed he is. His pale face is pleasantly flushed with the exertion from their activities. 

“Nah, just did an MMA movie once and have been dying to try that one out ever since.” 

“I’m honoured.” 

“You can take it.” 

Getting up on his knees, Tom grabs a few pillows from behind him. Cillian shouts in protest when he lifts him, shoving them underneath him for better leverage, but goes with it. 

Satisfied with the improved access, Tom fits himself snuggly against the delicious slit of the prone man’s behind. He gives a few experimental thrusts, swallowing down his desire to fuck right into the weeping hole as the warmth of the slick drenches him. 

“Now let’s have a look at you, hmm?” He says instead, reaching behind to grab the legs still splayed haphazardly past his back. 

“You’re not even talking to me anymore, are you?” Cillian huffs. 

Tom doesn’t answer tellingly, bringing the long, pale legs around, manipulating them at his leisure. Rather than straighten them, he leaves them bent, leaning back a bit as he places each foot at shoulder height. 

“Fuck me.” Cillian gasps, squirms beneath him as the movement brings Tom’s cock in line with his hole, pressing against the entrance. 

“Patience, darling.” Tom promises. 

The stilettos bite painfully into the sensitive meat of his collarbone, allowing the shoes to frame his face where he can eye them up properly. 

The colour is the first thing he notices. The neon pink is a bit garish for his taste, but pops in the poor light  adding to the illicit air. Gives them a bit of a porn star feel, which he appreciates. 

“Permission to touch?” He asks, slipping for a second back into his old submissive ways. 

From below him, Cillian’s laugh shakes his entire frame. The thought of his cock bobbing untended on his belly has Tom biting back a grunt of arousal.

“It’s your fetish. I’m not wearing the fuckers for my benefit.” 

“Are you ticklish?” 

“I’ll survive.” 

In spite of his words, he feels Cillian shiver as he turns his head, heavy exhale caressing the exposed skin of his feet. 

Turning his attention back to the task at hand, Tom runs his hands over the length of one of the shoes, noting the quality of the material and the hand stitching on the inner soles. In spite of what the colour may suggest, these are clearly not cheap  which is exactly how he likes them. 

His fingers trace under the delicate arches, marvelling at how high they are.

“Just lovely.” He murmurs appreciatively. 

“Can’t take any credit for the craftsmanship there.” Cillian replies, as if to fill the space. 

“Never could take a fucking compliment, could you?” Tom snorts. 

His hands wind their way up to the ankle, which is encased in a spaghetti-thin strap. He resists the urge to run his tongue along the seam, but just barely. Imagines how the metal of the tiny tag would feel in his mouth. 

Instead, he settles for wrapping his fingers around it, measuring the circumference. 

“If you make a crack about my delicate bone structure, I will kick you in the face.” Cillian sasses from below.

The sudden outburst breaks through Tom’s lust addled haze, causing him to giggle. 

“Careful sweetie, I might just enjoy that.” 

Conscious of the man stranded below him without relief, Tom drives his hips forward in a controlled press. 

The head of his cock pushing against the puckered entrance is almost unbearable in its intensity until it isn’t. After a short protest, the tight ring of muscle concedes, allowing him entry. 

Above and below, both men curse at the slick pop of his head slipping in. 

It takes everything within Tom to hold himself there – just the tip, buried in the silken, achingly inviting fold. 

“Masochistic bastard.” Cillian pants, as if reading his mind. He attempts to bare down, but Tom only counterbalances, moving backwards. 

“Thought you said this was my fantasy?” Tom chuckles. The laughter hides how hard it is not to move, to take, to fuck. He tries valiantly not to think about what they must look like  with Cillian all but speared in place.

It’s an unexpected reversal of their historical roles, but Tom thinks it suits him just fine  a little pay back for all the times Cillian had left him hard and wanting in trailers and dirty night club loos. 

The reality is far less sadistic. He wants to give him time to adjust to stretch – aware that it’s probably been some time since either of them has engaged in anything so intimately penetrative. 

“Doesn’t mean I have to enjoy it.” 

Tom buries himself a little deeper, and Cillian’s cock responds beautifully, drizzling onto his shaking stomach. 

“Mmm-hmm.”

Cillian curses at him again, before falling blessedly silent. 

“You okay?” Tom asks. As much as he wants to be the dominant one, the last thing he wants is for Cillian not to enjoy himself. 

“Just very full.” Cillian mutters, arching his neck a little on the bed spread. 

It’s fucking hot hearing him say it  and the effect is visible. 

Unable to help himself, Tom lops one leg over his shoulder, ducking down to examine for himself. 

He’s gentle with the movement, even more considerate when he spreads Cillian’s cheeks apart with his thumb and forefinger to inspect his own handiwork. 

“Not wrong. Hungry little cunt.” 

Cillian thrashes underneath him as he straightens, using the distance to keep their contact minimal. 

Tom smirks darkly, moving his foot back into his line of focus  acutely aware that every movement must jostle Cillian further, sink him deeper down onto him.

“Now these… these are a work of fucking art, mate.” 

His hand traces over the stiletto  thin, but strong and absurdly tall.

“Thank you.” Cillian responds, almost groggily. 

“Sharp, those are.” Tom murmurs, massaging the sole of Cillian’s foot with his hand. 

“Yes. Would you like me to cut you with them?” 

“Naughty.” Tom chuckles, “These arches of yours must be sore.” 

Giving into his impulses, he licks the underside of Cillian’s foot. Closes his eyes and savours the salty, earth fragrance. 

Cillian hisses sensitively, jerks a little but doesn’t pull away completely. 

“Let’s get you out of these, ay?” Tom says. 

He takes his time, savouring the moment as he undoes the tiny ankle strap. Winces at the marks cut into the other man’s skin, blood red and sore looking. 

He repeats the same process, laving his tongue along the indented ridges. Thinks of Cillian walking around all day in Tommy’s squared leather loafers, then strapping himself into the delicate women’s heels.  
“Feel okay?” 

“Shockingly, yes.” Cillian moans.

If Tom’s heart does a little flip in his chest, he does his best not to miss a beat. 

“Good, yeah, let me take care of you.” He babbles. 

As he lifts the foot to remove it, he notices the front of the shoe and does his best to suppress a gasp.

They’re open-toed. 

“Now why’d you have to go and do that?” Tom asks despairingly. 

His pretty sure his vision whites out for a second  prick stuttering inside of the other man at the visual. He can practically feel the pre-come dribbling out of him, mixing with the rest of the mess. 

Normally, he prefers them closed  but somehow despite being a size too small, Cillian’s toes manage not to look at all mangled. They sit in a neat little row, sweetly pressed together. 

It’s maddeningly endearing.

“They’re not much to look at.” Cillian laughs, “Poor pinkie might be a bloody mess at this point.” 

Tom slips off the shoe carefully, freeing the squashed appendages, following suit with the other as quickly as he dares. His heart feels like it’s about to hammer its way out of his chest. 

Cillian sighs below him, shifting his hips in relief. 

Tom discards the shoes over his shoulder without a second thought. 

Before he can overthink it, he opens his big mouth. 

“Can I suck on them?” 

The question hangs in the air between them for a long moment as Cillian turns it over in his head. 

In the meantime, Tom considers how long it would take to severe his carotid artery with the stiletto if the outcome isn’t in his favour. It would be messy, but effective. Surely an ambulance wouldn’t make it in the time it would take him to bleed out  two minutes, tops?

“Will it get you to fucking move?” 

Tom whines. 

“Use your words.” Cillian demands, taking control for the first time in what feels like forever. 

“Yes, more than anything, fuck.”

“Then suck.” 

Tom doesn’t need to be told twice, ducking his head and letting his eyes slip shut as he pops the big toe into his mouth. 

He bends at the waist as he goes, bringing their bodies closer together. 

Cillian cries out in another language as he’s folded in half, thighs crushed into his chest, cursing as Tom slides the entire way in, before bottoming out.

Working in a circular motion with his tongue, Tom’s hips follow the same mindless pattern as he begins to move, chasing his pleasure. 

His tongue explores the crevices in between, rolling and suckling. He can feel Cillian seizing around him, tight walls contracting and releasing in response to the foreign sensation. 

Dragging himself out of his own foggy headspace but continuing his ministrations, Tom presses his middle finger into the already stretch pucker, which accommodates the additional appendage easily. 

Below him, Cillian chats a litany of obscenities, practically sobbing as the finger delves deeper before scratching across his prostate. 

“Oh, yes, fuck, that’s it”

Tom hums, pleased, before devouring the entire top part of his foot all at once. 

Cillian shakes as he works his finger and tongue simultaneously, repeatedly slamming into the spot that makes him see stars while he mauling the aching, slippery appendages in his mouth. 

“I’m close,’ Cillian gasps, fucking himself back onto every part of Tom that’s filling him up, “Touch me  please?” 

Releasing his foot with a little wince of regret, Tom acquiesces. Dragging the other man’s legs away from his chest and throwing them over his shoulders, their bodies collide  finally together. 

Beginning to lose his rhythm as his own climax looms dangerously, Tom wraps his fist around the sticky mess between Cillian’s legs and begins to fuck it with his hand. 

The weight of the occasion  the expectations, the pent-up frustration, the desperation after years of going without  gets the better of them both. 

Cillian comes first, spilling over the still-pumping fist with a shout, splashing messily between their stomachs. 

Tom  sick fuck that he is  doesn’t let up. 

“You’ve got one more in you, don’t you? Come on, going to fuck you through it.” 

He continues to finger him, slamming into his prostrate and milk him dry with his hand until he’s over-sensitised and aching, moving into and away from the contact. 

The second orgasm catches him off guard and he comes again, mouth fallen-open, with a silent scream that shakes him to the core. 

His insides, which have been convulsing around Tom’s cock, massaging him from the inside this entire time, seize  and it’s more than enough to send Tom straight over the edge after him. 

Their uncoupling is a mess of cramping limbs and muffled grunts. 

Tom pushes himself up just enough to fall in a graceless heap on his side  sticking the landing just well enough to land directly on one of the upturned heels. 

“Ah, fuck  that smarts!” He cries out, throwing the offending item across the room. 

Cillian erupts into a fit of giggles. 

Tom squints over at him, fighting a tired smile as he buries his head in his arms. 

“You coming then, or adverse to a post-coital cuddle?”

“Stuck!” 

The reply is strained and Tom’s face creases, even as he drags himself upright with a beleaguered sigh. 

Cillian’s legs are still wedged against his chest. For his part, Tom is slightly mesmerised  the sinewy muscles in his thighs are dancing. 

“Care to help?” 

“Right.” Tom shakes it off, attempting to straighten Cillian’s legs to alleviate the cramping. 

He tries to fight him, of course he does, but ends up giving in with a sigh when Tom puts his feet up on his shoulders again, before gently leaning his weight forward to help elongate the contracted ligaments. 

“Thanks.” Cillian sighs in relief as Tom sets the stretch, pressing his weight down on the other man. 

“The pleasure is all mine.” 

Unable to resist, Tom kisses the inside of Cillian’s collapsed arch. 

“Take it all in, because you’re never seeing these little piggies up close again.” Cillian says dryly. 

“But I can keep the shoes to remember you by, right?” 

The remaining shoe pegged in his direction is all the confirmation he needs. 

Tom collapses onto an indignant Cillian, hysterical with laughter, drying come catching between them. He silences his protests with his lips, stealing a kiss and drinking it in before unceremoniously passing out. 

It’s the best sleep he’s had in weeks.


End file.
